


Home Is Not A Place

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Bunker Fic, Casifer, M/M, Post S11, Prize Fic, human!Cas, written before 11.18 aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean is the oblivious one for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Not A Place

**Author's Note:**

> for capndeancastrash on tumblr, who won a 3k word prizefic from a person who is incapable of sticking to a word limit when she's the only one around to enforce it.

Flat on his back in an apple orchard just outside Blue Ridge, Georgia, Dean heaves himself hard to the side to avoid the gnashing, spiny fangs of the crocotta lunging for his throat. It’s breath smells like a wet dog that’s been rolling around in discount deli sausage. Dean struggles not to gag.

It’s been a particularly shitty hunt--which is fitting, considering the rest of this year--and the only silver lining is that if he’s busy trying not to get his soul sucked out of his body then he’s not thinking about the fact that the guy he’s halfway in love with currently has the devil as his co-pilot. Or, he wasn’t. Until now.

“Shit,” he grunts, and digs his heels into the ground, hoping the added leverage will be enough for him to knock the crocotta off of him.

It’s not.

Sharp fingernails dig into his arm, and with no better ideas, Dean headbutts the fucker, right in the chin. He sees stars, and his skull throbs, but it does the trick for long enough that he can struggle back to his feet. Finding his knife again isn’t so easy. Before he’s had time to look the crocotta is back on him. 

_At least I’m back on my feet_ , he thinks, and as if on cue, he’s thrown backwards into a tree trunk. His already-aching head smacks against it, hard, blacking out his vision for a split second. It’s all he can do to grab a handful of loose soil and throw it in the fucker’s face. It’s a dirty move, but he doesn’t give a shit. 

Just about the only good advice his dad ever gave him is that there’s no such thing as a clean fight to the death. If you want to be the one left standing, you take every shot you can get, even the cheap ones. _Especially_ the cheap ones. Thumb in the eye, knee in the groin. Whatever.

This particular cheap shot buys him three seconds of breathing room, and he uses it to take stock of his injuries. There’s blood running down the back of his neck thanks to a rough graze on his crown, and his right thumb is clicking in a way that definitely doesn’t sound good, but the real problem is the feeling that his brain is still bouncing back and forth against the inside of his skull like a rubber ball. 

He blinks his eyes back into functioning properly just in time to see the clawed hand coming for his neck, and blocks it with a grunt.

Back at the abandoned farmhouse where they’re squatting, Sam is probably realizing that Dean has taken a little too long. Hopefully, it’ll occur to him that there might have been a second crocotta.

Five more minutes of failed escape and a probable concussion later, Dean is back on the ground and feeling slightly less confident that Sam has realized something is wrong. It’s only four in the afternoon, but they’d both been pretty bushed before they even came on this hunt, worn out from the lack of progress on saving Cas and killing Amara. Besides, there’d been no reason to suspect that the crocotta they killed a couple of hours ago had a friend.

Sam is probably snoring on the farmhouse floor. Help isn’t coming.

The crocotta slams his head against the ground again, this time directly into a protruding tree root, and Dean’s vision flickers like a TV in a storm. 

When it pries his jaw open with its gnarled, disgusting fingers, Dean thinks hazily, _this is it_. Game over. 

It’s almost a relief; the promise of the empty, the knowledge that he’ll be _done_ , at last, that he won’t even exist to feel bad for failing. But as the first barbs of whatever metaphysical appendage the crocotta uses to take souls sink into him, the skies overhead seem to darken, and it pauses. Looks over it’s shoulder just in time for Amara to pull it off Dean with a flick of the wrist. Like it weighs nothing. 

Without pause, she draws its own essence into herself, along with all the souls it’s already consumed, and drops it’s empty body carelessly. She turns her hungry eyes on Dean.

“I could feel it,” she tells him, voice too soft for something so old and vast and terrifying. “Touching your soul. Like it had the right.”

Dean feels like he’s going to be sick, because he doesn’t want to go to her, but her presence is magnetic and he feels his body straining that way regardless. He needs someone here to snap him out of this. Needs Sam to get his ass out of the farmhouse. Needs Cas to turn up with his smiting face and drag Dean out of harm's way.

Amara smiles like a shark and beckons-- _no, no, don’t go to her_ \--and he’s on his feet-- _don’t want this, please, fuck, help me_ \--and the orchard is sweet with the scent of apples-- _can’t die, not yet, gotta save Cas_ \--and his head is full of the quiet hum of bees and the promise of eternity-- _stop, stop, stop_ \--and--

The sky splits open. 

It crackles, electric blue fire, as ice cold and terrifying as the fallen angel whose arrival it announces. Between one second and the next, Lucifer is standing between them, facing Amara. Dean dropped his knife ten minutes ago, and even if he hadn’t, it would be useless against either of them. He doesn’t think he’d be able to convince his hand to try and stab Amara again regardless. He’s got nothing.

But looking at Lucifer, it occurs to Dean that he’s not just _standing_ ; he’s twitching all over, the white of his shirt stretching over his shoulders as he shudders and jerks like he’s waging an internal war, voice high and low and rough and completely nonsensical, like he’s trying to say two things at once.

 _Castiel_ , Dean thinks. He’s going for the reins.

Amara hasn’t moved since Lucifer landed. She’s just watching, curious and calm before she shifts her gaze back to Dean and he has to fight to retain control and coherency. To stay in place. To refuse the part of him that is drawn to her. He looks back at Lucifer, _Cas_ , Lucifer and feels his heart shudder.

When the angels finally stop fighting, he sees something like amusement flash in Amara’s eyes. Like she thinks she’s already won. 

It’s the last thing she does before the orchard is filled with light and sound.

\---

Dean’s skin tingles all over, and he blinks hard, wishing the spots in his vision would go away. When they do, he wants to take the wish back.

He sees the wing prints, first. 

Spread wide, singed into the trunks of three apple trees and smoking. The nauseating scent of burned feathers is thick and heady, and there’s a dark patch of Earth where Amara was standing, but he pays it no attention.

Instead he fixes his gaze on the body between the wing prints, slumped in the shade of an apple tree. The sky has cleared of the dark clouds that Amara brought with her, and the constant shift of dappled sunlight makes it impossible for Dean to tell if there’s any rise-and-fall to the chest. What’s more, until he opens his eyes, Dean’s got no way of knowing who survived. If either of them did.

He’s on his knees beside the body before he’s even aware of moving, and as soon as he touches his fingers to the pulse point there are eyes on him. Wide and blue and hopeful.

Dean all but crumples, pulling him up and into a hug that probably looks twelve kinds of awkward, but he doesn’t care. It’s _Cas_ , and he wraps one hand around Dean’s shoulder as the other clutches his knee, hard.

When Dean releases him from the hug the hand remains, gripping Dean’s knee almost painfully, like he’s afraid that if he lets go Dean will disappear. Castiel’s eyes roam over his face a dozen times before he seems to focus, and then he closes them on a sigh, smiling in that barely-perceptible way that makes Dean’s stomach tumble.

“Dean,” he says, and opens his eyes again. “Are you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ , Cas,” Dean tells him, incredulous even though he’s aware that he’s still bleeding from the head. “Jesus, I thought I told you never to do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Die.”

“I didn’t.”

Dean lets out a low laugh, shaking his head, and Castiel grins at him tiredly. Dean can’t believe how long it’s been since he saw that rare smile. How much he’s missed it. The reason why that is comes rushing into his mind at that, and he studies Castiel’s face.

“What _did_ you do? What happened to Amara? Is Lucifer--”

“I forced Lucifer from my body, and I ripped his grace out as he went,” Castiel says, pausing before he adds. “And then I just... to put it in basic terms, I threw it at her.” 

“You and those holy molotov’s, man,” Dean says with a disbelieving laugh that tries to lodge itself in his throat. 

“How’d you know it would work?”

“I didn’t,” Castiel admits sheepishly. “But it occurred to me that light and dark might cancel each other out, and I... Honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t have a great deal of time to plan. I heard your prayer, and--”

“My prayer?”

“It wasn’t a formal one,” Castiel hedges. “But you needed me. And I could tell she was here. I don’t quite know how I did it, but I took control. I flew here with Lucifer’s wings.”

“I saw you fighting him,” Dean says.

“He did not go easily.”

“So it’s over,” Dean says, unable to stop from grinning. “I mean, there’s still ghosts to bust, but... everything is good. Everything _is_ good, right? You’re not hurt, or--”

“I couldn’t... Lucifer had my grace, disentangling my own from his wasn’t possible. I had to expel both.”

“So you’re human again?”

“I am.”

Dean studies his face.

“Are you alright with that?”

For a drawn out moment, Castiel seems to weigh the question.

“I will admit I’m looking forward to my first meal.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets out a loud bark of laughter. It feels so unfamiliar, this startling bubble of warmth and happiness and relief in his chest. So strange to feel _light_. Castiel looks at him, and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is enough to make this whole awful year--or handful of years, really--fade into nothing.

“Come on,” Dean says, and claps him on the knee before he pushes to his feet and offers a hand. “Let's go find Sammy. First one there gets to tell him the good news.”

\---

Sam cries when they tell him, which isn’t fair, because the next thing Dean knows his own face is wet. His face hurts from grinning. He’s a fucking wreck.

He glances at Cas whose blue eyes are somehow brighter when the whites are tinged with red, and that only makes him let out another, more embarrassing noise.

“We’re done,” Sam says, and pulls Dean into a crushing hug. “We’re finally fucking done.”

\---

They take their time driving back to the bunker, and as they pull into the garage they pass the Continental. Lucifer left it outside when he’d come here last, pretending to be Cas. 

After he and Sam returned from the lake, Dean had jimmied the door open and driven it inside, out of the elements and away from any watchful eyes that might call a tow truck on an abandoned Lincoln. He’d sat in the driver’s seat for too long once he was there, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, just holding on, until Sam had awkwardly tapped on the window and suggested they eat something.

Now, Cas’ gaze settles on the car through the window, and Dean watches him in the rearview for as long as he can get away with it.

“I’ve been turning her over every week,” he says, and Cas and Sam both look at him; Sam in confusion until he figures out what Dean’s out-of-nowhere statement was in reference to, Cas just in confusion. “Your car. I’ve taken her out for a few miles every now and then to keep her in shape. Shouldn’t stall out on you when you get back behind the wheel.”

Something like confusion or panic flickers over Cas’ face, but it only lasts a moment before he smiles. Dean figures that he’s just tired after the long drive home.

“Thank you,” Cas says, far too earnest for such a small thing, so Dean plays it off like it’s even less.

“Don’t mention it.”

\---

The last time Cas was human, Dean had spent the entire drive back to the bunker mentally cataloguing all the unused rooms and choosing the best one to set up for him. 

He’d settled on room seven. About halfway between Dean’s room and the bathroom, it fits a double bed and a desk, and while it’s walls are the same combination of exposed brick and gray-blue drywall, it has a brass art-deco light fixture on the ceiling that Dean just feels like Cas would appreciate. It’s cosy without being cramped. It’s the goldilocks room, and one Dean very nearly chose for himself when they first moved in.

Cas never got to see it, last time.

This time, Dean feels nervous as he leads Cas down the hallway towards it. Like maybe it’s not good enough, after all. Like maybe he should let Cas choose his own room. He clears his throat at the door, one hand on the handle as he looks over his shoulder.

“It’s, y’know... it’s not much right now,” he says. “But there’s a bed and a desk and stuff, so it should tide you over.”

Cas just nods, and Dean pushes the door open, showing him inside.

“I’ll dig up some bedding for you in a minute. You know how to make a bed?”

“I never had to,” Cas says. Dean feels a pang of guilt at the reminder that Cas spent his last foray into humanity sleeping under bridges and on a gas station floor.

“I’ll do it the first time, if you want. Show you how. It’ll come in handy.”

“Alright.”

\---

It’s been three weeks, and Cas seems off. Jumpy.

Every time Dean says his name, he seems to brace himself for something. It’s Sam who figures it out.

“Have you been in his room recently?” Sam asks him one night after Cas has gone to bed, handing Dean his empty bottle and leaning against the kitchen table.

“Not since we first got back,” Dean admits. “He always has the door closed, so I figured he wanted his own space. Why?”

“I went in there earlier because I ended up with a pair of his jeans in my laundry. None of the clothes we gave him are in the closet,” Sam chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. “His stuff is all in his duffel.”

Dean tries not to panic. The bottle clinks against the others in the trash, too loud.

“You think he’s planning to split?”

“I think he’s expecting to be asked to.”

Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose and grits his teeth.

“Fuck,” he says.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Sam says.

“No,” Dean tells him. “I’m the one who kicked him out last time, so it’s my fault. I’ll do it.”

\---

Dean can hear low cursing coming from the kitchen before he’s even left his room, and by the time he gets there Cas has lost his battle for coffee. Grounds are everywhere. Cas is standing there in flannel pajama pants and a hand-me-down Styx t-shirt, and he looks like he’s seconds from throwing the percolator at the wall.

“What did Mr Coffee ever do to you?” Dean asks him, and Cas turns his glare toward him for a split second before he schools his face into something apologetic and, _fuck_. Frightened. Like he thinks this will be it. Like Dean’s about to tell him time’s up, move out.

“I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up, I just--”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine. Anything that gets in the way of a morning caffeine hit deserves to die slow,” he grins, aiming for levity. Cas just looks confused. “No big.”

“Alright.”

He points over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Go get dressed,” he says. “I’ll clean this up, and you and I are gonna take a drive.”

“Is there a hunt? What about Sam?”

“Sam’s got his own project today,” Dean tells him, and grabs the dustpan from under the sink. “Go on, man. I’ve got this.”

\---

Like most serious conversations, it takes Dean the better part of the drive to Hastings to work himself up to it. They’re in sight of the mall when he finally bites the bullet.

“So, Cas. How are you, uh. Coping?”

It’s not his best attempt at opening lines. Still, it’s better than nothing.

“Coping?”

“Y’know. With the whole…”

He gestures vaguely across the console, eliciting a frown. Dean clears his throat.

“With being human.”

“I’m managing.”

“Could be better, though, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

Dean chews on his lower lip.

“Honestly, I thought you’d just been dealing with it. Figured you just needed space. But last night, Sam saw your duffel.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. You’re not… you’re not planning on bailing, are you? I mean, it’s up to you, but I was-- we were kind of thinking that this would be home for you.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Of course I do,” Dean says. “What the hell, Cas?”

“But you keep… you told me you kept my car running so it wouldn’t break down when I leave. And you said that the room you’re letting me use wasn’t much but it would tide me over, presumably until I leave. Everything seemed contingent on me eventually leaving, so I assumed that was what you wanted.”

“Shit, Cas, I didn’t-- that’s not what I meant at all. I kept your car running because even though it’s a damn pimp car, I know you love it like I love the Impala, and I wouldn’t want it to die on you. And we’re not letting you use that room, it’s _yours._ I was just saying that the crappy setup should tide you over until you could make it your own.” With that, he pulls into the parking lot. “Which is what we’re doing today, by the way.”

Cas is completely silent, and when Dean finally looks over at him he’s just staring with this expression like he’s been blessed, and it makes Dean uncomfortable to see it. To think that this bare minimum of consideration could put such a look on his face. 

“So I can stay?” He asks, and Dean feels his heart sink.

How badly has he been treating this guy for him to be so sure that his welcome was temporary? How much has he fucked things up? Dean takes a breath as he searches for the right words, something that will convince him once and for all that he wants Cas around.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I know I’ve been twelve kinds of awful at showing it, but Cas. Wherever I am… wherever we are, that’s... I want that to be home for you, okay? With us. With me. If you want.”

There’s a lump in his throat by the end of the halting sentence. He clears his throat roughly to dislodge it and claps Cas on the knee, like that might help make what he just said seem like less of a confession than it was.

For once, Cas actually seems speechless. Dean takes the chance to get out of the car, and he breathes in the crisp morning air until he hears the passenger door open.

\---

Within an hour of entering the department store, their cart is overflowing. A set of cream sheets and a soft navy-blue faux-mink blanket, shelving to bolt to the wall, a floor lamp, a collection of novels, a pair of heavy boots for hunting and a thick wool coat for the approaching cooler months. 

A new coffee machine for the kitchen, considering the attitude of the current one.

“Is there anything else you want?” Dean asks him as he looks over the haul, and after a glance at the cart Cas shakes his head. His hesitation makes it clear that there’s something, but Dean can practically see him mentally tallying up the price tag. He leans a little closer and drops his voice. “Don’t worry about how much stuff there is. We’ve still got deep pockets thanks to Charlie. She emptied the Stynes’ accounts into one of ours, so we’re basically loaded right now.”

Cas still hesitates for a moment, but when Dean raises his brow he finally answers.

“I had a laptop before Metatron took my car, but he either lost it or sold it. I’ve been thinking I should write down everything I can think of that might be useful for hunting, just in case I start forgetting now that I’m human.”

“Alright, let’s get you a laptop then. And maybe a decent chair, too, if you’re going to be sitting at your desk a while.”

“Thank you,” Cas tells him, and Dean realizes that his feigned nonchalance every other time Cas has thanked him hasn’t done either of them any favors, so he smiles and pats his shoulder.

“Anytime, Cas. Just want you to feel at home.”

\---

When they arrive back at the bunker, it’s a little after noon, and Sam meets them in the garage. He’s standing by Cas’ car, a set of keys in his hand and a grin on his face.

“Got somethin’ for ya, Cas,” he says, beckoning him over and popping the trunk. “Dean was planning on doing this ages ago, but then he was, y’know. A demon. So. It got put on the backburner until today.”

“You did this?”

Moving around to peer inside, Dean lets out a low whistle at the sight of well-organized hunting tools and weapons under a false bottom, the underside of the trunk sprayed with a devil’s trap to match the Impala’s. As loathe as he is to admit it, it looks a damn sight more well planned than his own stash of weapons when left to his own devices. If it wasn’t for Sam constantly rearranging things, the Impala’s trunk would look like the bargain bin at a gun-nut’s garage sale.

“You said you wanted to be a hunter,” Sam tells Cas as he looks through the contents. “So we figured you should have the gear to match. This way if we ever have to split up on a hunt, we’ll all still have everything we need.”

“Sam, Dean… this is wonderful. Thank you.”

“That’s not even the best part,” Sam tells him with a grin, closing the trunk and sweeping his hair back out of his eyes. “Come on.”

They head into the bunker, loaded down with all of the bags from Dean and Cas’ trip to Hastings, and they drop them in Cas’ room before following Sam into the library. On the table, there’s scraps of old leather and paper scattered all over the place, and he dusts them aside before picking up a bound journal. He holds it out.

Despite knowing that Sam had been working on this since last night, Dean is impressed. The cover is soft brown leather, and it’s wrapped in a cord, fastened at the side. On the bottom right corner, the shape of his true name in Enochian script is scorched into the surface.

“It’s empty at the moment,” Sam tells him as they watch Cas trace the letters with his thumb. “Probably won’t take long for you to fill, though.”

“Sam, this is beautiful.”

Sam waves his hand as if to dismiss the compliment, though his cheeks are rosy. Dean thumps him on the shoulder in appreciation.

“I’m glad you like it,” Sam says. “Every hunter needs a journal.”

\---

Over the next few days, Dean makes a point of hanging out in Cas’ room while he slowly types up everything he knows about the monsters of the world. Sitting on the armchair in the corner and watching Netflix with his earbuds in, he figures it’s good to be in reach if Cas gets bested by technology--though admittedly computer-fu is more Sam’s forte than his. It’s a bullshit excuse, but he really doesn’t care.

So long as the end result has him keeping Cas company and actively reinforcing what he’d said about wanting the guy around, then he’s happy.

Four days after Cas started, Dean is deeply absorbed in an episode of Orange is the New Black when he gets hit square in the nose with a scrunched up post-it note. He pulls the earbuds out as he looks up at Cas, who is watching him with an amused smirk that makes Dean’s own mouth quirk up involuntarily.

“I called you three times,” Cas tells him when he lifts his brow in question. “It was like you weren’t even here.”

“It’s a good episode,” Dean grins. “What’s up?”

“I was just saying, you can sit on my bed if you like. It’s far more comfortable than that chair.”

Dean lifts his brow. The chair isn’t the least comfortable surface in the bunker--that award goes to the bench in the infirmary--but it’s not doing his mid-thirties spine any favors, either.

“You sure?”

Cas nods. 

“Just take your shoes off first.”

With a mock salute, Dean does just that. He settles back against the headboard and opens the laptop again.

“How’s the memoir coming along?” He asks before clicking play, and Cas narrows his eyes. It’s not the first time Dean’s called it that. For some reason, it seems to irritate him, and that only makes Dean do it more.

“It’s not a memoir.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

Cas rolls his eyes and turns back to his desk.

“It’s going fine.”

“Can I read it?”

“Not yet. Watch your show.”

Dean snorts.

“Yes, sir.”

He gets his earbuds back in and diverts his eyes to the screen before his blush can get too pronounced, but he still sees Cas glance back at him in his peripheral vision.

\---

Two episodes later, Dean can see him fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, tilting his head from side to side as he tries to crack his neck. He hits pause.

“I think it’s break time,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“You’re gonna get a stiff back sitting there so long, superior lumbar-support or not.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Standing, Cas stretches his arms out and rolls his shoulders. “What are you--” he pauses on a yawn. “What are you watching?”

“Orange is the New Black,” Dean says. “But I was about to switch to something else.”

Cas sits down beside him before he’s finished speaking, leaning into his space and dragging his finger across the scroll pad. His chest presses against Dean’s arm, and Dean finds himself holding his breath. He feels awkward and gangly all of a sudden. He hasn’t felt this way since he was fourteen.

“How about this?” Cas asks, shifting the cursor over the title of a Spanish soap, and his proximity combined with the content of the TV show in question are enough to set off the knee-jerk macho crap that never fails to make Dean hate himself a little.

“We are not watching that,” he scoffs.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not a pair of sex-starved housewives,” Dean says.

“So who watched the first eight episodes?” Cas asks, pointing out the words _resume episode nine_ where they appear over the show’s icon. Thirty odd years of making crap up don’t do a thing to help Dean cover that one.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You got me.”

“Is it any good?” Cas asks, but he’s tapping the play button before Dean can respond.

In all honesty, the soap is tacky as hell, but Cas actually seems to get into it, which is nice. Dean is used to having to pretend he doesn’t actually like this stuff--though the reason for why is getting foggier with every passing year--so watching it with someone who seems unfamiliar with the concept of shame in this context is a breath of fresh air.

With the warm press of Cas’ shoulder against his, Dean feels himself pulled into the story, and they stay there until their stomachs start to rumble.

\---

Somehow, it becomes their thing. They don’t talk about it, but soon it’s almost a ritual. 

Cas works at his desk for a couple of hours, and then he joins Dean for the next episode of _El Amor Entre Nosotros_. Sam only interrupts once a week after they start, but he seems to take Dean’s look-- _I’m just making sure he’s doing okay_ \--at face value and leaves them to it.

Even when they finally start going on hunts again, they take to watching shows side by side on the small screen during downtime. Sam, for some unknown reason, never bothers to try and watch too.

As the days go by, Dean learns to savor the warmth of Cas’ body beside him. The way his shoulders tense when something particularly dramatic happens, how he has a habit of jiggling his foot when it invariably falls asleep.

The only problem Dean has run into is that his phone keeps running out of battery while he’s lounging around on Cas’ bed, thanks to his constant need to google things.. After a while, he brings his spare charger into the room and plugs it in on the side of the bed where he sits. 

When it keeps slipping off the mattress, Cas disappears for a few minutes before returning with a side table from another of the bunker’s bedrooms. He’s carrying it like it doesn’t weigh a thing, and Dean tries not to focus on the fact that despite being human now, Cas appears to have retained an impressive amount of upper body strength.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to start leaving stuff in the drawers of the side table. A pack of throat lozenges when they all catch colds after a hunt in Maine in the early Fall. His iPod, for those times when Cas asks him for some music while he’s writing. His hunting journal, just because Cas occasionally thinks of a sigil or spell that might be useful to have on hand on an average hunt. His dead guy robe migrates to the hook on the back of Cas’ door, and his dead guy slippers peek out from under the bed.

When Winter rolls around, the bunker starts getting cold earlier in the day, and after four consecutive days of leaving during an episode to get a hoodie from his room, Cas suggests he just leave one or two in the closet here. He doesn’t even question it.

Halfway through a Dr Sexy marathon in early December, Dean falls asleep and wakes up to find the laptop gone, the lights out, and Cas’ blue blanket pulled up over both of them. As soon as he moves to leave, Cas shifts beside him with a huff and nudges at his hip before pulling him back.

“Go back to sleep, Dean,” Cas murmurs sleepily, so he lays back down on his side. Their feet bump together under the covers. _That’s Cas’ toe_ , Dean thinks blearily, and smiles until he falls back to sleep.

It’s the first night of many that he falls asleep there. It stops feeling weird to wake up there after the third time, and though Dean worries once or twice that he’s going to accidentally get handsy in his sleep, the most that ever happens is that they end up with their shins pressed together.

Soon enough, he takes to settling under the covers when they start their marathons rather than leaving Cas to adjust the blankets later. It’s just for convenience, really. Nothing more.

His arm stretched over the back of Cas’ pillow is just because it keeps falling asleep otherwise.

\---

In the second week of January, Dean and Sam head to Rosedale, Ohio to take care of a salt-and-burn while Cas holds down the fort and fields any calls that they send his way. They finally track down the remains around midnight on Tuesday, and after spending the rest of the night digging up a grave they head back to the motel to wash the dirt away. 

It’s a little after four in the morning, but rather than waiting until they’ve had some sleep Dean insists that they head back now.

“I just want to get back to my own bed,” he says, when Sam complains about wanting to just crash for a few hours first. “And you know Cas is getting bored by now.”

For some reason, Sam gives him a funny little smile at that and agrees. Dean’s too glad that he changed his mind to wonder why it worked.

It takes a little over thirteen hours to get back, and Dean drives the first leg while Sam snores in the passenger seat. They stop for lunch in Missouri, and while Sam slowly and methodically demolishes a caesar salad big enough for a neighborhood cookout, Dean eats pickle chips and texts Cas.

“What’s he up to?” Sam asks him as he loads his fork with chicken and romaine.

“He’s researching the local soil quality,” Dean says, not noticing that Sam didn’t even need to ask who he was talking to. “Says he’s thinking of starting up a garden outside the bunker.”

“Awesome,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean grins, tapping out a reply.

They hit the road again soon after, and by six they’re pulling into the garage. Sam offers to bring in Dean’s bag if he wants to started on dinner, and with a good homemade bolognese on his mind Dean agrees easily. Pausing in the hallway to say hi to Cas, who greets him with a squeeze of the shoulder that makes Dean’s stomach flip in the most pathetic way, he heads into the kitchen and sets the ground beef in the microwave to defrost. 

While he’s waiting he goes to his room, figuring he can sort out his laundry, but when he pushes open the door the room is just as he left it, and his duffel isn’t there.

He heads for Sam’s room and raps on the door.

“Sammy, where’s my stuff?”

“On your bed,” Sam calls back, his voice muffled before he opens the door. “What’s for dinner?”

“Food,” Dean tells him helpfully, and goes back to his room, figuring the bag must have slipped off onto the floor and he just failed to see it. But when he looks around, even ducking down to check underneath the bed, it’s nowhere to be found.

He’s just about to go ask Sam again when he bumps into Cas in the hallway, sheepishly holding the duffel in his arms, his cheeks burning a furious pink.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Sam brought it into my room,” Cas says, and Dean pulls a face.

“Did he have his eyes closed?”

“No,” Cas says, handing it over a little stiffly. “We had a conversation. He wanted to know if I was going to come on a run with him in the morning, and... “

“And?”

“Nothing. I’m going to take a shower.”

With that, he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall, and after watching him go Dean walks back to his room to dump the bag before looking for Sam again. He finds him in the kitchen, peering into the microwave to see what Dean is defrosting.

“What the hell, Sam,” Dean says as soon as he sees him, and Sam straightens up to look at him with bewildered eyes.

“What?”

“You know _what_ ,” Dean says, but Sam just stares at him as if he really doesn’t. “Why’d you put my stuff in Cas’ room?”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Are we seriously not done with this?”

“Done with what?”

“Dean, you sleep in his bed literally every night.”

“I--” Dean starts, but. Yeah, that’s actually pretty fucking accurate. He blinks.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Well I sure as hell didn’t!” Dean hisses back, his eyes widening. “I. Fuck. Is this. Fuck. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Wait,” Sam says, holding up his hands as his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Dean, are you seriously telling me that _you didn’t realize that you moved in with him_?”

“We never, I mean. It’s. We aren’t even--”

“It’s been months, Dean.”

Sam looks like he’s having the kind of sudden-onset migraine that makes you hallucinate. Right now, Dean can relate.

“Did you think we’d just--” he gets lost in the sentence and changes tack halfway through. “--and we just didn’t _say_ anything?”

“Pretty much. I thought that just moving in there was your way of telling me without saying anything. Like. You didn’t want to make a big thing of it. I always assumed you’d tell me that way if you told me at all, so it didn’t seem--”

“You always assumed I’d tell you what?”

“Uh,” Sam’s face turns crimson. “Y’know. That you like guys too.”

Dean covers his face with his hands.

“Am I asleep?” He asks. “Is this a dream?”

“I can kick you to find out.”

“Fuck off, Sam,” Dean says, but the words carry no venom. He’s too busy trying to process the fact that he’s somehow come out without knowing, and more importantly, moved in with the guy he’s in love with without even telling him he’s interested. “What the hell.”

“What exactly is going on then?” Sam asks. “I mean. I figured you guys had finally cut the bullshit and fessed up, but…”

“Nothing is going on. We just. We watch TV until we fall asleep. That’s it.”

“So you’ve never…” Sam wriggles his hands in the air vaguely, pulling a face, and Dean slaps them down. “Wow.”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Yeah, fine. No complaints here. Maybe you should talk to him, though.”

\---

Cas’ room is warm when Dean finally works up the courage to go back. The lamp he’d chosen months ago casts a soft orange glow over everything. It’s calming. It helps. 

Looking more awkward than Dean has ever seen him, Cas is standing at the foot of the bed, staring at Dean’s spare pillow. Dean can’t even remember how long ago that had made it’s way in here.

“Oh my god,” he breathes to himself, and Cas tenses before he turns around, staring at Dean like a deer in the headlights.

“Dean,” Cas starts, and doesn’t get any further. Dean clears his throat.

“So, I, uh… I talked to Sam.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. He, um. Pointed something out to me that was maybe already pretty obvious.”

“He did?”

“Apparently, I moved into your room a couple of months ago.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah,” Dean looks down, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That. Did you know?”

“I certainly thought that you seemed to be spending an excessive amount of time in here,” Cas says, ever the diplomat.

“And you didn’t think you should tell me to fuck off?

“I didn’t want you to. I… I’ve liked it. Having you here. Sharing my room with you.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like to continue sharing my room with you. And my bed,” Cas adds after a moment, all in a rush, like he’s scared that if he doesn’t say the words quick they’ll dissolve on his tongue.

“You want me to share your bed.”

“Yes.”

“Friends don’t do that, Cas.”

“Then I suppose I don’t want to be your friend.”

Dean just stares, and after a second Cas widens his eyes, visibly worried that Dean’s going to react badly, and suddenly the six feet of space between them dissolves as Dean hurries forward. He’s pretty sure he was going for a kiss, but damn if he doesn’t chicken out at the last minute, just wrapping his arms around Cas’ middle and pressing his face into the hollow of his throat, breathing deep. Cas’ hands are spread across his shoulders.

“Okay,” Dean tells him.

“I’m having a little trouble parsing your meaning here, Dean,” Cas tells him, and Dean laughs, pulling away slightly to look him in the eye. He still looks a little nervous, but hopeful. It makes Dean brave.

“I don’t want to be your friend, either,” he says, and kisses him before he can misunderstand.


End file.
